CHAUNCEY  WETMORE  WELLS 

1872-1933 


& 


This  book  belonged  to  Chauncey  Wetmore  Wells.  He  taught  in 
Yale  College,  of  which  he  was  a  graduate,  from  1897  to  1901,  and 
from  1901  to  1933  at  this  University. 

Chauncey  Wells  was,  essentially,  a  scholar.  The  range  of  his  read- 
ing was  wide,  the  breadth  of  his  literary  sympathy  as  uncommon 
as  the  breadth,  of  his  human  sympathy.  He  was  less  concerned 
with  the  collection  of  facts  than  with  meditation  upon  their  sig- 
nificance. His  distinctive  power  lay  in  his  ability  to  give  to  his 
students  a  subtle  perception  of  the  inner  implications  of  form, 
of  manners,  of  taste,  of  the  really  disciplined  and  discriminating 
mind.  And  this  perception  appeared  not  only  in  his  thinking  and 
teaching  but  also  in  all  his  relations  with  books  and  with  men. 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


THE  SCRANNEL  PIPE 
A  BOOK  OF  VERSE 
BY  LEONARD  BACON 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


*    l 

\  { 

A 


THE  SCRANNEL  PIPE 
A    BOOK    OF    VERSE 

BY    LEONARD    BACON 

u 


And,  when  they  list,  their  If  an  and  flashy  songs 
Grate  on  their  scrannel  pipes  of  wretched  straw. 


PRIVATELY   PRINTED 

NEW  HAVEN 

1909 


IN  MEMORIAL 


There  were  three  men  on  Golgotha 

Nailed  on  the  gallozvs  tree, 
And  Mary  the  Lady  of  Life  came  there, 

Weeping  before  the  three. 

And  Christ  that  was  Dead  spake  from  the  tree: 

"Mother,  what  care  thee  grieves?" 
And  Mary  the  Mother  answered  him: 

"Dear  Son,  I  weep  for  the  thieves." 

And  a  thief  that  was  dead  looked  down  on  her 

From  the  tree  whereon  he  hung, 
And  his  bloody  hair  blew  out  on  the  wind, 

And  he  spake  with  a  living  tongue: 

"They  have  split  my  palms  with  the  piercing  nails, 
"They  have  broken  me  with  spears, 

"But  they  cannot  slay  the  spirit  in  me, 
"Nor  the  triumph  in  my  ears. 

"I  was  a  King  in  the  North  Country, 

"A  man  and  a  maker  of  men, 
"And  I  wrought  great  evil  in  sorrow  and  shame, 

"But  my  heart  is  born  again. 

"Men  shall  die  in  torment  and  fear 

"Reaping  the  bitter  sheaves. 
"This  they  remember  when  they  die, 

"Mary  wept  for  the  thieves" 


862671 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

INTERPLANETARY i 

A  BALLADE  OF  NEW  ORLEANS 4 

THE  MARCHING 5 

THE  DEAD  MUSE 7 

THE  LAST  RIDING  OF  THE  ROMANS g 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  BOATMAN n 

THE  BYZANTINE  CAESARS I4 

BALLAD  OF  THE  MERCENARIES 15 

FREE  BALLADE  OF  THE  GOLDEN  HORN 20 

BALLADE  OF  COUNT  STILICHO  THE  CONSUL 22 

BALLADE  OF  CAESAR'S  GATE 24 

BALLADE  OF  HERACLIUS  THE  GREAT 26 

BALLADE  OF  LEO  THE  ISAURIAN 28 

BALLADE  OF  NICEPHORUS  1 30 

BALLADE  OF  THE  WAIL  OF  THE  WOMEN  OF   BYZANT 32 

BALLADE  OF  CvESAR'S  HOUR 34 

BALLADE  OF  THE  CARDINAL  BESSARION 36 

THE  BUDGET 39 

THE  LEE  SHORE 4r 

NEW  YORK,  SEPTEMBER  2sth,  1909 42 

BALLADE  OF  QUEEN  HORTENSE 43 

BALLADE  OF  THE  MARSHAL  RADETZKY 45 

THE  BALLADE  OF  HICKS  PASHA 47 

FREE  BALLADE  OF  KING  FERDINAND 49 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  TWO  RIDERS 51 

FURTHER    AMPLIFICATION    OF    THE    SENSATIONS    OF    A    CELE- 
BRATED MEDIAEVAL  POET   WHO   WAS  TO  BE   HANGED   WITH 

HIS  COMPANIONS  FOR  THIEVERY 54 

TO  THE  DISTANT  PRINCESS 57 

FREE  BALLADE  OF  MYSELF  AND   MONSIEUR  RABELAIS 58 

PROEM 60 

DRAWN  BATTLE 61 

NEW  HOPE 62 

RISING  TIDE 63 

VICTORY 64 

THE  WITS  OF  LONDON 65 

ENVOY...                                                                                                                               -  66 


INTERPLANETARY. 

"Christ  keep  the  Hollow  Land''—  William  Morris. 


the  forgotten  silences  of  sleep 
I  canje  there,  upward  through  a  quiet  space 
Of  absolute  death  of  being;  then  awoke. 
My  feet  were  firm  on  that  abiding  star, 
Treading  strong  steps  down  a  far  swerving  slope 
Of  sown  magnificence,  made  beautiful 
With  amaranth,  and  hyacinth,  and  spears 
Of  rosy  hardback  spiring  over  fern. 
Down  underneath,  terrace  by  terrace  down 
Went  the  charmed  land.     Its  burden  of  still  towers 
Grew  iridescent  as  Pompeian  glass, 
And  the  white  walls  of  unimagined  cities 
Failed  on  the  far  horizon,  as  I  looked, 
Half  lost  between  the  distance  and  the  haze. 
I  heard  a  song  below  me  in  the  vale 
Chorus  of  many  voices.     Melodies 
Greeted  the  dawn,  and  splendid  might  of  song 
Noble  and  old,  and  sounding  like  the  sea 
Surging  along  some  purple  southern  coast, 
Whose  islands  are  phantasms  of  the  gods. 
Then  through  a  most  high  music  of  deep  sound, 
Concord  of  sweetness  came  she  forth  to  me, 
And,  failing  at  the  top  of  its  desire, 
My  spirit  knew  the  darkness  once  again. 


Waking  came  on  me  rushing  splendidly, 

White  waves  .of  life  surging  across  a  sea 

Of  the, .'de^rl; spirit's  dumb  forgetfulness. 

•  The  < violet  cities  -of  the  sun's  decline, 

Ramparted  soV'rtwi  holiness  of  flame, 

Reared  on  a  Western  strength  unspeakable. 

And  like  a  sea  bird  at  the  cliffs  of  song 

She  hovered  on  wings  of  music  beside  me  there. 

Threnos  of  nations  overpassed  and  gone, 

Desire  of  lovelier  creatures  yet  to  be, 

Beat  through  the  chords  in  splendor  half  unheard, 

Till  somewhere  through  a  mystery  of  sound 

Came  richest  surges  of  Parnassian  song. 

The  veils  of  silence  that  encompassed  me 

With  shadowy  violet  darkness  fell  away 

As  haze  before  the  sea  wind.     As  the  sea 

Comes  forth  beneath  the  splendor,  and  the  curve 

Of  breakers  storming  shoreward  without  halt 

Grows  marvelous  to  the  eye,  even  so  in  me 

The  vivid  sea  arose  in  answering  waves 

Of  wonderful  music-begotten  speech. 

The  ecstasy  of  ecstasies  I  knew, 

The  birth  of  an  unspeakable  hope  made  great, 

Triumph  that  took  me  and  lifted  like  a  fire 

Wonderfully  onward  to  my  victories. 

And  I  remember  after  many  years 

Her  lips  on  mine,  and  then  a  written  scroll 

Of  stranger  letters  yet  intelligible. 

Thereafter  was  that  troublous  keen  delight 

Preluding  all  the  song's  magnificence, 

And  deep-hid  splendor  took  the  strength  of  life. 


Wherefore  I  had  all  that  a  man  might  have. 
Then  without  sorrow,  facing  the  far  dawn, 
Glad  of  our  magic  sacrifice  we  died, 
She  on  her  golden  planet,  I  on  mine 
Amid  my  smoky  cities  of  desire. 
And  all  of  the  undying  heart  of  me 
Blazes  like  fire  through  a  forgotten  song. 


A    BALLADE   OF    NEW   ORLEANS. 

Sun  like  liquor,  and  wind  like  light, 

And  every  puddle  a  diamond  stain 
On  streets  of  silver  and  blazing  white, 

Banked  in  colors  that  change  and  remain. 
Orange  and  scarlet  wax  and  wane 

In  curtains  of  shadow,  and  sun  aglance, 
And  sweet  in  the  spirit  flower  again 

The  Spanish  vision,  the  dream  of  France. 

Where  the  riven  sunset  burns  in  the  height 

Over  the  bosom  of  Pontchartrain ; 
And  far  on  the  edge  of  the  fire  line,  night 

Binds  the  day  in  his  brilliant  chain; 
And  outstretched  water  and  low  brown  plain 

Marry  and  meet  in  one  dark  expanse, 
The  West's  red  ramparts  a  space  retain 

The  Spanish  vision,,  the  dream  of  France. 

Rusty  balconies  flight  on  flight 

Calico  laden,  where  Lady  Disdain 
Drowsed  with  her  novel,  or  breathed  delight 

In  the  soft  wind  in  from  the  Spanish  main. 
The  silence  whispered :   "France"   and  "Spain." 

And  the  spirit  knew,  in  her  fragrant  trance 
Like  odor  of  lilacs  after  rain, 

The  Spanish  vision,  the  dream  of  France. 

Fierce-eyed  Commerce  mid  strife  and  strain 
Unweaves  it  all  in  her  strong  advance. 

Shall  her  labor  and  travail  yet  attain 

The  Spanish  vision,  the  dream  of  France? 


THE  MARCHING. 

Poem  read  at  the  Class  Day  Exercises  of  the  Class  of  1909, 
Yale  University. 

Past  the  house  of  the  dear,  dear  mother 
The  sons  of  her  splendid  strength  went  by, 
Singing  and  calling  one  to  another, 
And  glad  their  song  and  the  sound  of  their  cry. 

They  sang :     The  East  and  the  West  shall  know  us, 
The  tower  in  the  city,  the  hut  on  the  hill ; 
And  the  four  free  winds  of  God  shall  blow  us 
Over  the  world,  as  they  work  their  will. 

We  seek,  in  the  greatness  thy  spirit  taught  us, 
The  city  of  men,  where  the  men  are  gods, 
The  Vision  of  Visions  our  fathers  brought  us, 
To  dream  a  blossoming  out  of  the  clods. 

Their  hope  ariseth  alive  and  vernal ; 
Thee  it  bore,  it  is  borne  of  thee; 
And  the  youth  in  us  tastes  of  its  sempiternal 
Savor  of  things  that  have  been  and  shall  be. 

Men  say  the  city  our  hands  are  building, 
The  solemn  city  of  our  desire, 
Is  naught  but  the  sun  of  a  dead  day  gilding 
The  somnolent  ramparts  of  night  with  fire. 

But  that  city  is  strengthened  with  blood  of  the  spirit, 
The  blood  of  the  spirit  of  God,  and  we, 


Even  as  angels  of  God,  inherit 
Its  might  and  steadfast  eternity. 

And  we  shall  know  thee  splendid  and  tender, 
When  we  live  and  die  for  thee  all  day  long, 
When  we  give  our  souls  in  the  deep  surrender 
Of  labor  to  labor  and  song  to  song. 

When  the  doors  of  to-morrow  shut  before  us, 
And  all  the  gates  of  the  future  close ; 
When  the  victory  comes  not  that  shall  restore  us ; 
We  will  be  strong  in  our  overthrows. 

Dreaming  of  thee  and  thy  ways  that  master, 
The  ear  that  heareth,  the  eyes  that  see, 
The  courage  outliving  the  time's  disaster, 
The  virginal  spirit  of  splendor  in  thee. 

What  we  have  seen  shall  the  years  hereafter 
Anew  discover,  anew  forget, 
And  our  sons'  sons  will  remember  our  laughter, 
And  know  the  passion  of  our  regret. 

Mother,  we  go  from  the  kiss  of  our  weaning, 
Lift  our  lips  from  thy  breast  and  go, 
Though  as  yet  we  know  not  thy  perfect  meaning, 
Thy  love  shall  teach  us  at  last  to  know. 

Therefore  bless  us  beneath  thy  portal, 
The  brightness  and  beautiful  pride  of  thy  gate, 
For  mortal,  thy  blessings  shall  make  us  immortal, 
And  out  of  thy  strength  shall  our  hearts  create. 


THE    DEAD    MUSE. 

The  daughter  of  dead  dawning  lay  alone, 

White  and  outstretched  upon  an  ill-made  bier, 

Her  living  glory  seemingly  all  gone ; 

Her  place  was  full  of  blackness,  none  drew  near ; 

No  faithful  one  for  her  would  shed  a  tear 

Save  ancient  baffled  seekers  of  the  bay ; 

So  lone  she  was  at  the  drear  end  of  day. 

When  she  was  living,  ah  but  it  was  sweet 
To  see  her  coming  at  the  first  of  morn, 
To  mark  the  tripping  of  her  silver  feet, 
To  hear  her  sing  amid  the  standing  corn, 
To  catch  the  scent  from  far-off  lilies  borne, 
And  with  her,  in  the  long,  sweet,  meadow  grass, 
Dream  out  the  day,  and  let  the  sorrow  pass. 

The  glory  of  the  summer  sunset  West 
Was  on  her  brow,  and  splendor  in  her  eyes ; 
And  in  her  glance  the  weary  one  found  rest, 
And  in  her  voice  were  lingering  rhapsodies, 
That  seemed  to  sing  of  golden  Paradise, 
Beyond  the  thunder  and  the  whirl  of  things, 
Beyond  the  tears  and  dreary  sorrowings. 

The  clear,  God-prompted  music  of  her  lips 
Was  like  the  glorious  melody  we  hear 
When  the  great  singing  star  of  morning  slips 
Into  the  breast  of  some  majestic  mere, — 


A  murmur  of  the  greater  gods  anear, 
A  song  of  morning,  peace  and  quietness 
And  crowning  love,  and  utter  loveliness. 

And  now  is  she  gone  from  us,  and  we  hear 
No  quiet  music,  and  no  melting  song, 
No  voice  that  ringeth  in  the  morning  clear, 
When  the  rapt  hills  are  lost  in  echoings  long, 
Deep  sounding  thunder,  rolling  sweet  and  strong 
For  she  that  wrought  it  is  long  past  and  dead, 
And  all  our  light  with  her  fair  spirit  fled. 

But  joyfully  she  whispered,  e'er  she  died, 
That  she  would  move  among  us  yet  once  more, 
Strong  and  unconquerable  as  the  tide, 
That,  singing,  rushes  up  the  whitening  shore, 
Fairer  and  lovelier  than  she  was  before— 
A  glorious  being,  splendid  to  aspire, 
Reborn  amid  the  thunder  and  the  fire. 


THE  LAST  RIDING  OF  THE  ROMANS. 

Legions  of  locked  disorder,  columns  of  disarray, 
Into  the  town  the  Romans  rode,  at  the  ending  of  the  day, 
In  from  the  purple  heather,  in  from  the  splendid  down, 
No  Caesar  or  pride  with  them  did  ride,  when  the  Romans 

came  to  town. 
I  went  to  the  foremost  horseman,  a  word  in  the  ear  I 

spoke ; 
What  did  they  care  for  a  Gorgio,  the  wonderful  Gypsy 

folk? 
I  gave  them  the  city's  freedom,  I  made  them  free  of  the 

town; 
But  what  did  they  care  for  the  city,  the  lords  of  the  open 

down? 

I  called  to  Jerry  and  Jasper,  Isopel,  Sinfi,  and  all, 
They  would  not  hearken  my  summons,  they  would  not 

come  at  my  call. 
This  was  never  their  custom,  they  should  have  answered 

me  fair, 
The  lads  with  the  eyes  of  sea-hawks,  the  girls  with  the 

long  black  hair. 
So  I  saw  that  something  was  over,  that  something  was 

wicked  and  wrong, 
And  I  said,    "Is  it  ill  with  the  sheriff,  for  robbery,  stiff 

and  strong? 
"Have  you  set  a  charm  on  a  woman,  have  you  poisoned 

cattle  or  swine?" 
Then  they  said,  "Is  the  business  of  Egypt  the  business  of 

thee  or  of  thine? 


Can  a  Gorgio  wot  of  our  riding,  where  the  roof  tree 

shelters  his  head  ? 
He  knows  not  the  wind  in  the  nostril,  nor  the  roar  of 

the  stallion's  tread. 
We  go  from  the  happy  wayside,  from  the  camp  on  the 

edge  of  the  road ; 
We  have  reaped  the  terrible  harvest  that  never  a  crop 

have  sowed — 
This  is  the  endmost  riding,  ere  the  last  free  horseshoe 

fails, 
Of  them  that  were  lords  of  the  highway,  in  Edom,  and 

Ind,  and  Wales, 

Anvil-emperors  of  Russia,  Istria,  Carthage,  and  Spain, 
We  ride  on  the  Roman  riding,  and  we  never  shall  ride 

again. 

Never  again  the  dingle,  the  kettle  set  on  the  fire, 
And  Rhona  frying  a  herring,  the  best  the  heart  could 

desire, 

Never  the  Gypsy  quiet,  never  the  Roman  Peace, 
The  chaffinch  deep  in  the  hawthorn,  and  the  greeting  in 

Rommanese ; 

The  tidings  of  the  Romans,  of  horse  fairs  near  and  far, 
The  breaking  of  mares  and  stallions,  with  never  a  bit  nor 

a  bar. 

Romans  that  ruled  the  empire,  the  riders  of  the  steed, 
This  is  the  last  great  riding,  put  up  and  better  the  speed." 
The  stallions  started  together,  the  mares  went  free  with 

a  bound, 
The  Romans  whistled  the  oncall,  they  never  turned  them 

around. 

Out  on  the  white  macadam,  pressing  the  heel  to  goad, 
Away  for  ever  and  ever,  the  last  of  the  Romans  rode. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  BOATMAN. 

We  were  three  boatmen  beside  the  river, 
John  the  Singer  and  Richard  and  I. 
We  were  three  boatmen  beside  the  river 
In  the  splendid  dawn  of  the  days  gone  by. 

And  John  could  sing  like  the  warbler  yellow, 
And  Richard  played  on  the  pleasant  pipe, 
But  I  was  only  an  idle  fellow 
That  knew  when  strawberry  shoots  were  ripe. 

And  one  morn  a  maid  came  down  to  the  water, 
To  our  merry  hut  beside  the  shore, 
Crying :   "Carry  me  over  the  water. 
Boatmen!  Boatmen!  Ferry  me  o'er." 

And  up  rose  John  all  wild  with  singing, 
With  a  laugh  on  his  lips  as  he  left  the  door ; 
"Oh  Maiden,  Maiden!   Oh  Flower  Upspringing! 
'Tis  I  will  merrily  ferry  thee  o'er." 

And  the  silver  mist  hovered  over  the  river, 
And  hid  from  our  sight  the  path  of  the  boat, 
Yet  his  singing  went  on  with  a  golden  quiver, 
Like  the  morning  song  of  the  speckle-throat. 

But  he  came  not  back,  and  the  mist  never  parted, 
Though  it  drew  at  last  to  the  falling  of  night, 
And  we  waited  sad  and  sorrowful-hearted, 
And  morning  wept  for  our  lost  delight. 

ii 


Oh  weary  it  was  beside  the  river 

For  Richard  would  not  play  on  the  pipe 

And  the  white  mist  drifted  over  the  river, 

And  the  strawberries  rotted  ere  they  were  ripe. 

And  one  eve  a  Maid  came  down  by  the  water, 
To  our  dreary  hut  upon  the  shore, 
Crying :   "Carry  me  over  the  water. 
Boatmen!  Boatmen!  Ferry  me  o'er." 

Up  Richard  rose,  where  he  lay  a-sighing, 
And  laughed  aloud  as  he  left  the  door ; 
"Oh,  marvelous  Maiden,  cease  thy  crying, 
'Tis  I  will  merrily  carry  thee  o'er." 

And  away  they  went  on  the  misty  river, 
And  were  gone  from  sight  like  a  stone  in  the  sea; 
And  the  winds  arose  and  winnowed  the  river 
But  Richard  never  came  back  to  me. 

Yet  a  maiden  came  unto  me  thereafter, 
About  the  midst  of  the  summering  year, 
When  the  little  wave  lifted  aloft  in  laughter, 
To  the  wind  in  heaven  a-calling  clear. 

For  she  came  adown  to  the  wondrous  water 
And  the  lonely  hut  beside  the  shore, 
Crying:    "Ferry  me  over  the  water. 
Boatman!   Boatman!   Carry  me  o'er." 

And  out  we  went  on  the  winding  river, 
While  Summer  was  singing  along  the  shore 
And  we  were  alone  on  the  winding  river 
And  just  at  sunset  I  brought  her  o'er. 

12 


And  she  smiled  upon  me  solemn  and  splendid 
And  my  eyes  were  opened  as  darkness  fell, 
And  I  saw  that  the  first  of  my  life  was  ended, 
And  dreamed  in  my  heart  that  all  was  well. 

But  she  looked  upon  me  with  wondrous  pity, 
And  her  eyes  were  even  as  fire  afar, 
As  she  said :   "You  must  search  for  the  silver  city 
And  the  lovely  land  where  your  comrades  are." 

"For  still  they  are  seeking  who  long  have  sought  me, 
And  the  time  is  nearing  when  they  shall  find, 
And  the  splendor,  wherewith  the  Gods  have  fraught  me, 
Shall  open  the  seeing  eyes  that  were  blind." 

E'en  so  she  spoke,  and  speaking  departed ; 
And  I  heard  her  sing  as  she  crossed  the  plain, 
And  her  singing  made  me  gentle-hearted, 
And  sorrow  lifted  and  lifeless  pain. 

And  I  know  that  she  dwells  in  her  place  of  splendor, 
Garlanded,  glorious,  girt  with  wings; 
And  I  know  that  her  eyes  are  splendid  and  tender, 
And  the  air  is  magical  as  she  sings, 

Arbutus  and  Hyacinth  all  around  her, 

Not  so  sweet  as  the  sound  of  her  song, 

And  I  know  that  Richard  and  John  have  found  her, 

And  I  know  that  sorrow  is  not  for  long. 


THE  BYZANTINE  C^SARS. 

Oh  rulers  of  a  slain  eternity 
Of  battle  and  disaster!    You  that  hold 
My  spirit  with  your  iron  and  bloody  gold, 
Why  has  your  greatness  gripped  and  girdled  me? 
So  that  my  dreams  behold  your  anciently, 
And  visions  of  the  night  your  strength  untold, 
Till  I  am  drunk  with  mysteries  manifold 
And  un  forget  fulness  of  empery. 

But  your  dead  mastery  rules  a  wider  range 
Than  walled  Amorium,  or  Armeniac  bounds. 
And  all  your  cycles  old  shall  be  reborn, 
When  Balkan  Europe  roars  beneath  the  strange 
Clamor  of  armament,  that  shakes  and  sounds 
Against  the  gateways  of  the  Golden  Horn. 


BALLAD  OF  THE   MERCENARIES. 

Circa  1150  A.  D. 

Captains  mighty  together,  gallant  children  of  kings, 
We  are  apart  from  your  joyance,  share  not  your  pon- 
der ings  ; 
Know  not  the  sweet  of  your  triumph,  nor  the  bitter  of 

your  defeat, 
Yet  desire  your  height  of  desire,  and  entreat  what  you 

would  entreat. 
Brown  arms  of  the  world-wide  conqueror,  swift  hands 

of  the  stars  control, 

Lifted  aloft  in  your  service,  yoked  to  draw  at  your  pole; 
We  are  kingless  before  you,  yet  bitter  well  we  know 
The  sorrow  of  the  Caesars  and  the  Palseologian  woe. 
Do  we  wot  of  the  horror  of  failure,  of  the  province  fallen 

astray, 

Lying  allies  that  leave  us,  cities  that  die  and  decay ; 
Redemption  of  death  and  dishonor  wrenched   from  a 

feeble  foe; 
Bought  victories,  poisonous  treaties,  deadly,  eating,  and 

slow^ 
Fear  in  the  phalanx  forsaken,  betrayed  and  slaughtered 

for  gold; 

Defense  of  disastrous  cities,  no  devil  in  Hell  could  hold. 
Ah  God,  the  horrible  frontier!     The  shaken  terror  that 

burns 
The  face  the  color  of  ashes!     Ah,  strength  that  never 

returns ! 

15 


No  trust  in  ourselves  forever,  deep  scorn  of  the  loath- 
some shame 

That  stamps  us  cowards  or  heroes,  marshals  of  evil  fame. 
Slaves  of  an  alien  power,   bought  in  the  sale  of  the 

swords, 
Bound  to  down-wheeling  fortunes  with  bonds  that  are 

keener  than  cords. 
Our  wounds  do  they  wrinkle  and  fester,  do  the  throats 

of  our  suffering  strain, 
And  vomit  the  blood  of  our  sorrow,  we  must  plough  in 

the  field  again. 

Doth  the  Boukellarion  murmur,  Nicsea  shake  and  rebel, 
We  must   control   and   cajole  them,    and   betray,   and 

destroy,  and  expel. 
The  Caliph  conceiveth  a  battle,  the  Slovack  passeth  the 

bound, 
We  must  divide  and  defeat,  and  suborn,  and  subdue,  and 

surround. 
Do  we  come  back  with  a  triumph,  you  know  us  for  what 

we  are, 
Your   daughters   withdraw   them   from  us,   your   sons 

denounce  and  debar, 
Our  captains  despise  and  revile  us,  our  servants  complain 

of  our  pride; 
Our  cowardice  gaineth   no   champion,   our  courage  is 

doubted,  denied. 
No  nation  to  own  or  bewail  us,  no  woman  to  love  or 

embrace, 
No  man  to  befriend  and  support  us,  we  stand  in  an  evil 

place. 
Oh  whips  of  the  street  smite  harshly!    chariots  hard 

on  the  rein! 

16 


Praetorian  Varangs  together,  out  to  the  wars  of  your 

pain; 

Fail !   Fail  fiercely  in  battle,  the  fear  hath  fallen  afar. 
Shout!    Keen  sons  of  disaster,  the  War,  the  Wolves  of 

the  War. 


BALLADES  OF  THE  LOWER  EMPIRE 


There  was  never  in  all  the  world  empire  like  unto  this  empire. 
For  her  walls  are  iron  and  her  gates  wrought  silver.  She  has  over- 
come great  kings  and  their  armies ;  and  the  hand  of  her  might  lies 
heavy  on  the  necks  of  nations.  Yet  there  cometh  a  day  when  she 
shall  stagger  as  a  tree  that  feeleth  the  whirlwind  in  his  branches. 
Her  gates  shall  be  as  the  gates  of  Babylon,  and  her  greatness  as  the 
greatness  of  Sodom.  For  the  heart  of  her  people  is  wholly  given 
unto  evil. — The  Golden  Book  of  John  of  Adrianople,  A.  D.  1160. 


PROEM. 
FREE  BALLADE  OF  THE  GOLDEN  HORN. 

We  were  mariners  long  agone, 

Or  ever  the  ages  termagant 
Had  torn  the  gold  from  the  gonfalon, 

That  flew  at  our  forepeak  arrogant. 
And  whenever  the  winds  were  hesitant, 

And  the  sail  fell  slack  in  the  silent  morn, 
The  bent  oar  swung  to   "Byzant !   Byzant ! 

Hark  away  for  the  Golden  Horn." 

And  when  the  last  of  the  isles  were  gone, 

And  the  low  wind  singing  and  odorant, 
Through  the  silver  channels  bore  us  on, 

Stirring  in  mainsail  and  top-gallant, 
High  on  ratline  and  spar  aslant 

We  sang,  where  the  splendid  flags  were  borne, 
And  oh !  but  our  hearts  were  jubilant, 

There  in  the  bight  of  the  Golden  Horn. 

The  Soldan  of  Antioch  hath  won 

The  city  of  silver  and  adamant; 
And  our  high  venturing  galleon 

Was  burned  with  a  fire  excoriant, 
There  by  the  sea  gates  resonant. 

And  we  are  wounded  and  wretched  and  worn, 
And  know  the  whips  of  the  flagellant 

Beyond  the  curve  of  the  Golden  Horn. 

20 


Princes !    ye  whom  the  years  enchant, 
Ye  too  will  drink  of  the  dregs  of  scorn, 

Ye  will  sell  your  souls  for  a  new  Byzant, 
And  die  for  a  glimpse  of  the  Golden  Horn. 


I. 

BALLADE  OF  COUNT  STILICHO  THE  CONSUL. 

V  Century. 
Loquitur  pro  Stilichone  Claudianus  Poeta. 

Baltic  traitor,  vainglorious, 

Are  there  any  proofs  of  your  prophecy  ? 
Is  there  no  fruit  of  the  laborious 

Planting  of  such  a  victory  ? 
You  won  no  diadems  from  me 

Save  a  crown  of  swords  that  overcome, 
And  a  failure  past  recovery. 

These  be  the  ransomings  of  Rome. 

What  do  you  know,  Honorius, 

Of  the  winning  of  this  empery? 
Was  not  Ravenna  the  inglorious 

City  of  your  security? 
You  triumphed  there  most  splendidly, 

Safe  in  the  wide-coursed  hippodrome, 
Forgetful  of  my  chivalry. 

These  be  the  ransomings  of  Rome. 

You  are  drunken  legions  uproarious 

With  Gothic  plunder  and  mastery. 
What  then  of  your  wreaths  victorious, 

And  your  slaughter,  and  your  revelry  ? 
Did  you  win  my  battle  with  bravery? 

Did  your  splendor  of  courage  bring  you  home? 

22 


Think  of  my  guile  and  my  constancy ; 
These  be  the  ransomings  of  Rome. 

Pollentia,  your  name  shall  be 

Drowned  in  the  tumult  of  time  to  come. 
Death,  and  Terror,  and  Treachery, 

These  be  the  ransomings  of  Rome. 


23 


II. 

BALLADE   OF   CAESAR'S   GATE. 

VI  Century. 

On  with  the  guards  in  purple  and  steel, 

Stepping  together  they  march  along, 
Shoulder  close  to  the  chariot  wheel, 

Hands  lashed  tight  with  the  rawhide  throng, 
Hearts  that  are  weary,  hearts  that  are  strong, 

Hark  to  their  chorus  desolate, 
As  they  set  their  souls  in  the  burdened  song : 

"We  are  come  unto  Caesar's  Gate." 

Rent  and  tattered,  with  welt  and  weal, 

The  halt  and  the  blind,  the  withered  and  young, 
Feet  that  stagger,  and  heads  that  reel, 

Dead  that  stand  in  the  crushing  throng. 
The  roads  were  desert  they  went  among, 

Their  eyes  are  frantic  with  fear  and  fate, 
But  hark  the  bitter  word  on  their  tongue : 

"We  are  come  unto  Caesar's  Gate." 

Up  on  the  gallows,  under  the  heel. 

Passionate  dead  whose  bodies  are  wrung 

With  living  anguish,  living  that  feel 
Pain,  whose  passions  to  death  belong. 

Never  they  pray,  whose  hands  have  clung 
To  the  knees  of  Chance  inviolate, 


Only  their  voice  like  a  broken  gong : 
"We  are  come  unto  Caesar's  Gate." 

Will  he  deliver  us  unto  the  prong, 

Or  the  whirling  wheel  and  fire  of  his  hate  ? 

Will  he  avenge  us  or  will  he  wrong  ? 
We  are  come  unto  Caesar's  Gate. 


III. 

BALLADE  OF  HERACLIUS  THE  GREAT. 

Circa  628  A.  D. 

I  was  a  god  on  the  splendid  seas, 

When  I  sailed  from  Carchedon  long  ago 
To  chasten  a  coward's  cruelties,, 

Whence  every  evil  on  earth  did  flow. 
We  dealt  him  a  bitter  blow  for  a  blow. 

Wherewith  did  my  emperorship  begin ; 
But  I  said,  as  his  evil  corpse  fell  low : 

"My  battle  of  battles  is  yet  to  win." 

The  Persians  harried  the  provinces, 

Leagued  and  bound  with  an  ancient  foe. 
I  fed  them  the  venom  of  victories, 

Till  they  were  drunken  with  overthrow. 
Irak's  ridges  of  iron,  I  trow, 

Saw  them  fall  in  the  driven  din. 
But  I  said,  as  their  flight  began  to  grow : 

"My  battle  of  battles  is  yet  to  win." 

You  of  Damascus,  be  at  ease, 

For  I  am  coming,  and  even  so 
Will  I  slaughter  this  speaker  of  prophecies, 

And  shortly  his  stricken  side  shall  glow 
With  imposition  of  stripes  arow. 

There  is  no  salve  that  shall  heal  his  skin, 


26 


But  I  dread  that  a  victory  will  show 
My  battle  of  battles  is  yet  to  win. 

Farewell,  Syria,  ere  I  go 

Hellward  to  deal  with  my  soul  for  sin. 
Heaven,  and  hell,  and  the  empire  know 

My  battle  of  battles  is  yet  to  win. 


27 


IV. 
BALLADE  OF  LEO  THE  ISAURIAN. 

VIII  Century. 

Afar  in  the  scarlet  Armeniac, 

They  say  that  the  caliph's  bolt  is  shot ; 
And  none  of  his  armies  struggled  back 

From  the  raid  on  the  strong  Cibyrraiot ; 
And  that  great  war  fleet  Cypriot 

Hath  thrown  the  rebels  into  flight ; 
And  that  is  the  end  of  their  plan  and  plot. 

How  I  shall  triumph  in  this  my  might ! 

My  ships  from  Pontus  and  Egypt  track 

Laden  with  victories  I  had  thought 
Too  mighty  for  me.     Nor  do  I  lack 

The  splendor  their  travailing  oars  have  got. 
And  the  sun  of  my  strength  is  high  and  hot, 

On  the  legions  marching  in  from  my  fight, 
Ranked  in  phalanx  and  chariot. 

How  I  shall  triumph  in  this  my  might ! 

But  I  am  a  sail  that  is  fallen  slack, 
And  no  wind  speedeth  my  galliot. 

For  all  the  timbers  of  empire  crack, 

And  the  beams  of  my  conquest  rend  and  rot ; 

The  weeds  and  the  worms  destroy  and  blot 
With  a  temporal  and  devouring  blight. 

28 


And  victor,  already  full  well  I  wot 
How  I  shall  triumph  in  this  my  might. 

Legions  of  victory,  you  cannot 
Cast  a  realm  in  the  moulds  of  fight. 

All  my  labor  is  all  unwrought. 

How  I  shall  triumph  in  this  my  might ! 


29 


V. 

BALLADE  OF  NICEPHORUS  I. 

IX  Century. 

Once  I  captained  an  armament, 

But  that  was  a  season  of  hours  ago, 
And  now  I  am  spent  as  a  coin  is  spent, 

And  bartered  and  bargained  to  and  fro. 
Little  track  will  be  left  to  show 

Whither  my  wanderings  have  led, 
And  the  naked  sworoUedge  whispers  low : 

"What  is  the  price  of  an  emperor's  head?" 

Unto  disaster  I  have  lent 

The  whole  broad  empire's  strength.     Although 
I  wrought  in  grandeur  of  intent, 

I  profited  in  overthrow 
And  massacre,  and  murderous  woe 

Of  broken  brethren  of  the  dead, 
And  open  shame,  that  the  whirlwinds  blow : 

"What  is  the  price  of  an  emperor's  head?" 

My  purposes  magnificent 

(Seeds  for  the  harvest  I  meant  to  sow) 
Are  stifled  with  conquest  insolent, 

And  their  dead  promise  can  never  grow. 
Bitter  the  hope,  that  was  so  slow, 

And  trampled  under  a  tempest's  tread. 

30 


Only  an  emperor  wots,  I  trow, 

What  is  the  price  of  an  emperor's  head. 

Irene !  Stabrakios !  you  who  go 
Before  and  after  me,  season-led, 

Before  the  devil  and  God  you  know 
What  is  the  price  of  an  emperor's  head. 


VI. 

BALLADE  OF  THE  WAIL  OF  THE  WOMEN  OF 
BYZANT. 

Any  Century. 

What  is  the  sound  of  sorrow  unseen, 

Crying  of  women  far  and  near, 
When  all  the  city  is  serene 

With  fortunate  victory,  and  cheer 
Of  conquest  on  the  keen  frontier? 

Why  this  fierce  misery  clamitant? 
Wherefore,  O  Emperor,  falls  so  clear 

The  wail  of  the  women  of  Byzant? 

Ever  lust  and  the  lash  have  been 

Lords  of  the  city  without  peer ; 
And  the  gateways,  where  her  kings  come  in, 

Have  owned  their  sovereigns  this  thousand  year. 
But  there  is  no  battle  nor  tumult  here, 

Fruit  of  Rebellion  tonitrant, 
That  there  should  come  on  the  troubled  ear 

The  wail  of  the  women  of  Byzant. 

What  is  the  harvest  they  would  glean? 

What  bitter  largess  of  their  fear  ? 
Is  it  some  vision  that  must  mean 

Evil  to  come,  or  else  the  sheer 
Forecast  of  wars,  where  disappear 

Armies  and  nations  arrogant  ? 

32 


Is  it  born  of  evil  deep  and  dear, 
The  wail  of  the  women  of  Byzant  ? 

Satan,  your  halls  are  foul  and  drear, 

Shame  and  Death  are  the  gifts  you  grant, 

Whereby  the  nadir  of  hell  shall  hear 
The  wail  of  the  women  of  Byzant. 


33 


VII. 

BALLADE  OF  CAESAR'S  HOUR. 

Constantine  XIII  loquitur  A.  D.  1453. 

Silver  and  gold  abroad  in  the  state, 

And  I  am  clad  in  crimson  and  pall. 
This  is  the  pleasant  place  of  the  great, 

And  I  am  the  master  over  all. 
Never  topsail  may  hoist  or  haul, 

Nor  galley  anchor  save  by  my  power 
Sacrosanct  and  imperial. 

This  is  the  splendor  of  Caesar's  hour. 

My  fathers  vended  the  Exarchate 

To  princes  of  Alamain  and  Gaul, 
And  the  lordships  of  Asia  are  desolate, 

Where  the  Caliph  holdeth  festival. 
He  has  taken  the  marches  past  recall, 

He  has  beaten  my  men  in  a  stricken  stour, 
Without  the  ramparts  his  leaguers  brawl. 

This  is  the  splendor  of  Csesar's  hour. 

Set  new  guards  on  the  Blachern  gate! 

Look  to  the  harbor,  admiral ! 
Patriarch,  march  in  your  wonted  state 

And  pray  with  a  higher  ritual ! 
Stand  to  it,  captains-general ! 

Gallant  spirits  that  can  not  cower, 

34 


What  though  our  labor  be  broken  and  small  ? 
This  is  the  splendor  of  Caesar's  hour. 

Captains,  they  are  storming  the  wall, 

They  have  ta'en  the  gate  and  the  strongest  tower. 
What  is  it  to  Caesar,  if  Caesar  fall? 

This  is  the  splendor  of  Caesar's  hour. 


35 


IX. 
BALLADE  OF  THE  CARDINAL  BESSARION. 

Circa  1500  A.  D. 

City  my  heart  cannot  forget, 

Circled  about  with  a  silent  sea, 
How  your  greatness  abideth  yet, 

And  the  deep  strength  of  your  mystery. 
Your  emperor  holds  no  empery 

Over  the  near  or  the  farther  themes, 
Yet  he  rules  in  all  my  revery ; 

I  have  dreamed  in  the  city  of  dreams. 

Cardinal  prince,  my  hands  are  set 

To  plow  for  the  Pope  in  Italy ; 
But  your  beautiful  empire  will  not  let 

My  spirit  bow  to  his  heresy. 
Out  of  the  past  your  memory 

Ransoms  my  heart,  and  its  strength  redeems 
The  world  with  a  moment  of  majesty. 

I  have  dreamed  in  the  city  of  dreams. 

Ramp  and  palace  and  parapet 

Are  shattered  in  your  infirmity, 
And  the  courtyards  where  your  Caesars  met, 

Are  sad  with  a  Soldan's  revelry. 
He  has  smitten  with  indignity 

Your  dromonds  and  your  quinqueremes. 

36 


He  is  battle  and  blood  and  iniquity. 
I  have  dreamed  in  the  city  of  dreams. 

"Bessarion,"  saith  my  soul  to  me, 
"Thou  are  mighty  by  this,  meseems, 

Because  thou  sayest  with  verity, 

'I  have  dreamed  in  the  city  of  dreams.'  " 


37 


In  this  year  fell  the  great  and  far  renowned  city  of  Constantinople 
that  was  the  place  of  Caesar.  Whereby  we  are  sore  put  to  it,  having 
now  no  greatly  eminent  city  surpassing  all  others  in  beauty  and 
power.  And  shortly  we  of  this  monastery  needs  must  labor  at 
the  making  of  manuscripts,  for  God  alone  knows  when  the  light 
of  learning  shall  be  made  to  shine  again. — Th<e  Chronicle  of  Raymond 
of  M alines,  A.  D.  1453. 


THE  BUDGET. 

Circa  1510  A.  D. 

Naught  but  peace  from  the  provinces, 

And  the  subject  cities  over  seas. 

In  Yemen  they  have  abased  the  Khan, 

The  Vali  of  Egypt  is  taken  and  slain, 

And  the  rebel  captain  of  Kurdistan 

Has  got  the  bit  in  his  teeth  again. 

The  Tunis  corn  ships  are  overdue, 

But  Brian  of  Malta's  Christian  crew 

Was  seen  but  a  se'ennight  since  off  Crete, 

And  God  knows  what  has  become  of  the  fleet. 

Naught  of  mark  from  the  palace  court 

But  a  new  decree  of  the  Sacred  Porte : 

This  year  the  turbans  of  Samarcand 

Are  forbid  by  law,  and  the  Sultan's  hand 

And  seal  will  be  set  thereto  to-day. 

The  Sheik-ul-Islam  will  have  his  way. 

Yestre'en,  up  on  the  Belvedere, 

The  eunuchs  strangled  the  grand  vizier, 

And  the  Sultan's  favorite  bayadere. 

Allah  is  great,  but  isn't  it  queer? 

Naught  from  the  city,  nay  but  wait, 

This  morning  under  the  golden  gate 

A  falling  roof -tile  broke  the  pate 

Of  Mehamet  AH,  the  cobbler's  son ; 

Poor  lad,  his  stitching  days  are  done. 

He  died  at  noon. 

39 


What?     What?     Dead? 
Yea,  by  a  tile  from  overhead. 
Ha,  Yusuf,  they  are  evil  days, 
That  slay  a  man  in  the  midst  of  his  ways ; 
The  women  are  weeping  and  drooping  the  head, 
Mehamet  Ali  our  friend  is  dead, 
"So  it  is  written,"   the  prophet  said. 
Naught  from  the  provinces,  naught  from  the  court, 
Save  battle  and  murder  and  music  and  sport, 
But  Mehamet  Ali  our  friend  is  dead. 


40 


THE  LEE   SHORE. 

Beside  the  shore  I  saw  great  armaments 

Of  ships,  that  struggled  with  a  baffling  tide 

And  a  strong  wind,  that  scarce  would  be  denied. 

And  some,   close  hauled,  made  good  their  way   from 

thence, 

And  gaining  mastery  of  the  elements, 
Drew  off  to  windward.     The  more  part,  o'er  tried 
By  the  great  sea,  drove  leeward  in  their  pride, 
And  the  reefs  garnered  their  magnificence. 

Disastrous  navies  of  a  losing  fight, 

Whose  present  victors  shall  be  overthrown 

Or  late  or  soon  by  the  incessant  sea; 

Though  ye  make  head,  ye  still  shall  waste  your  might 

And  all  the  stake  that  ye  had  set  thereon 

Who  throw  a  wager  with  eternity. 


NEW  YORK,  SEPTEMBER  25th,  1909. 

Guarded  and  girded  with  iron  sea-born  power, 

Her  beautiful  head  crowned  high  with  wonderful  wings, 

I  saw  her  bloom  through  the  years'  encirclings, 

Violently  lovely  as  a  tropic  flower. 

The  flame-wrought  line  of  parapet  and  tower 

Burned  with  her  greatness,  and  the  trumpetings 

And  thunder  of  the  armament  of  kings 

Hailed  the  nobility  of  this  her  hour. 

Her  head  was  lightning  and  her  feet  were  fire, 
Yet,  underneath  the  arches  of  her  pride 
Her  clear  eyes  glanced  a  little  space  aside, 
Marking  her  people's  mirth,  their  toils  surcease. 
"And  this,"  she  said,  "is  my  best  loved  desire, 
The  triple  triumph  of  the  swords  of  peace." 


BALLADE  OF  QUEEN   HORTENSE. 
A.  D.  1815. 

This  is  the  greatness  of  my  day, 

The  first  of  summer  after  my  spring, 
And  a  nation's  waif,  and  a  realm's  estray 

Are  one  a  queen  and  the  other  a  king. 
The  bells  of  my  beautiful  triumph  ring 

Up  on  the  tower  the  whole  day  long ; 
But  I  rejoice  in  a  better  thing ; 

France  forever  shall  sing  my  song. 

Out  in  the  courtyards  the  fountains  play, 

And  the  winds  in  the  bending  linden  swing, 
And  I  dream  of  my  brother  Beauharnais 

And  the  end  of  our  adventuring. 
Tidings  are  good  my  couriers  bring, 

And  the  empire's  hope  is  splendid  and  strong ; 
We  win  from  the  centuries  bargaining. 

France  forever  shall  sing  my  song. 

They  have  murdered  Brune,  they  have  butchered  Ney, 

The  whips  of  Europe  flicker  and  sting. 
And  the  world's  whole  strength  is  fallen  away 

In  the  Eagle's  last  endeavoring. 
Spent  the  spirit,  broken  the  wing 

That  bore  us  over  the  nation's  throng. 
This  is  the  fruit  of  my  laboring ; 

France  forever  shall  sing  my  song. 

43 


Music !     My  spirit  yearns  to  sing 
In  stress  or  quiet,  or  right  or  wrong, 

Till  the  end  of  man's  remembering, 
France  forever  shall  sing  my  song. 


44 


BALLADE   OF   THE   MARSHAL   RADETZKY. 

A.  D.  1855. 

Here  in  the  Quadrilateral, 

Under  the  four  great  walls  we  wait 
To  dance  in  the  Kaiser's  carnival, 

And  reap  his  harvest  of  iron  and  hate. 
The  time  is  come  of  our  battle's  spate, 

The  brows  of  victory  knit  and  frown, 
And  I  know  in  my  labors  desolate, 

Though  I  have  stood  shall  the  world  go  down. 

Italy's  soul  is  a  funeral. 

Austria's  grave  is  within  her  gate. 
And  I  stand  her  captain-general, 

Locked  in  our  leaguer  castellate. 
A  war  unwinnowed  cannot  abate, 

And  all  for  love  of  the  Iron  Crown 
I  must  hold  my  hand  to  the  shaken  state. 

Though  I  have  stood  shall  the  world  go  down. 

Austria,  hark  how  the  bugles  call ! 

Austrians,  shoulder  the  rifles  straight ! 
Out  from  Milan  the  armies  crawl, 

And  the  dinning  drums  reverberate ! 
Charge,  white  Austrians !   God  is  great ! 

God  and  the  Kaiser  of  renown ! 
Battle  and  terror  their  hands  create. 

Though  I  have  stood  shall  the  world  go  down. 

45 


Mine  is  a  sorrow  no  mirth  can  sate, 
No  death  abolish,  no  wine  can  drown. 

This  is  the  horror  of  my  fate, 

Though  I  have  stood  shall  the  world  go  down. 


46 


THE  BALLADE  OF  HICKS   PASHA. 
A.  D.  1883. 

The  desert  is  thirsty,  the  bushes  are  dry ; 

Three  days  of  drought  and  of  bitter  bread ; 
The  scouts  are  afar,  but  there  is  no  cry ; 

The  white  dust  rises  under  the  tread. 
In  the  valley  afar,  where  our  lives  sped 

Easily  on  without  let  or  bar, 
Only  one  word  is  whispered  or  said : 

"Sirdar  Hicks  Pasha  is  gone  to  the  war." 

On  the  edge  of  the  gully,  dusty  and  high, 

Something  aflash  like  a  silver  thread. 
The  mercenaries  have  turned  to  fly, 

And  men  must  die  in  the  cowards'  stead. 
Surely  a  bitter  thing  is  dread, 

And  none  will  help  us  anear  or  far. 
Little  honor  alive  or  dead : 

Sirdar  Hicks  Pasha  is  gone  to  war. 

Taken  and  slaughtered  terribly, 

With  blasted  virtue  and  good  lives  shed, 
We  abide  till  our  strength  shall  die, 

Mown  and  strown  by  a  scythe  of  lead 
In  a  fool's  hand.    Our  hearts  have  bled 

The  best  of  our  blood,  and  the  gash  and  scar 
Shall  throb  in  a  land  whose  hope  is  fled. 

Sirdar  Hicks  Pasha  is  gone  to  the  war. 

47 


Anguish!   How  can  we  lift  the  head? 

For  shame  has  cut  like  a  scimetar, 
And  burned  our  foreheads  bloody  and  red. 

Sirdar  Hicks  Pasha  is  gone  to  the  war. 


FREE   BALLADE  OF   KING   FERDINAND. 
A.  D.  1908. 

Over  the  mountain  pass 

After  nine  hundred  years, 
Up  from  the  river  morass, 

From  the  meadows  and  the  meres, 
In  a  clatter  of  pikes  and  spears, 

Mid  brandished  rifle  and  brand, 
Came  the  cry  of  cries  to  our  ears : 

"God  save  King  Ferdinand!" 

Laughter  of  lad  and  lass, 

Women  and  old  men's  tears, 
Drum  roll  and  bellowing  brass, 

Roaring  plaudits  and  cheers, 
Shattering  fall  of  fears, 

Whose  grip  was  hard  on  the  land, 
And  the  cry  that  west  world  hears : 

"God  save  King  Ferdinand!" 

Up  where  the  armies  mass 

Huzzars  and  carabineers ! 
The  sand  runs  slow  in  the  glass 

Till  the  Balkan  vulture  sheers 
Down  where  his  battle  clears, 

And  his  harvests  of  victory  stand, 
Spoil  for  him  and  his  peers. 

God  save  King  Ferdinand ! 

49 


God!    the  charge  and  the  cheers; 

The  rifles  are  hot  in  the  hand ; 
Battle  and  terror  and  tears; 

God  save  King  Ferdinand ! 


THE   BALLAD   OF  THE  TWO   RIDERS. 

The  haze  yet  hung  in  the  willows  slender, 
And  the  sun,  behind  the  height  of  the  hill, 
Lit  the  clouds  with  a  crimson  splendor, 
And  field  and  forest  were  hushed  and  still, 

When  my  brother  and  I  went  out  a-riding, 
Blithe  as  the  linnet  that  woke  nearby, 
With  wonder  of  all  the  world  betiding, 
Under  the  peace  of  the  quiet  sky. 

And  the  road  was  white,  and  the  dust  thereover 
Hovered  and  hung  in  the  burning  air, 
And  we  heard  the  cry  of  the  piping  plover, 
As  she  rose  aloft  in  the  morning  glare. 

And  lo,  by  the  wayside  a  woman  gazing 
Out  to  the  west,  'neath  her  shading  hand, 
Alone  in  the  heat  of  the  full  sun  blazing, 
And  her  look  we  might  not  understand. 

But  the  rushing  horses  onward  bore  us, 
And  never  a  word  to  us  she  said ; 
And  a  shudder  of  pity  and  fear  came  o'er  us, 
As  we  left  her  standing  still  as  the  dead. 

Yet  anew  in  our  hearts  awoke  the  singing, 
As  wonderfully  onward  the  good  steeds  ran, 
With  a  thunder  of  hoofs  and  iron  ringing, 
And  we  felt  the  joy  of  the  might  of  man. 

51 


And  sudden  along  by  the  wayside  wending 
Two  men  came,  plodding  wearily  on, 
And  their  hearts  were  sad  with  sorrow  unending, 
And  they  sought  the  woman  who  stood  alone. 

And  the  eyes  of  the  one  were  red  from  weeping, 
And  the  lips  of  the  other  were  white  for  pain, 
And  our  merry  hearts  gave  over  leaping, 
And  we  stayed  the  steeds  with  the  bridle  rein : 

"Grace  of  God  and  the  saints  be  to  ye, 

All  in  the  merry  summer  day. 

Say,  is  there  aught  that  a  man  may  do  ye?" 

And  the  first  of  the  twain  made  answer :  "Nay." 

But  quiet  and  gently  answered  the  other : 
"Thank  ye,  kind  sirs,  from  a  woeful  one. 
We  do  but  seek  for  our  Lady  Mother, 
Who  standeth  up  by  the  hill  alone." 

Then  on  we  rode,  and  the  steeds  went  slowly, 
And  our  hearts  grew  sad  for  another's  woe; 
Yet  grief  of  soul  did  not  hold  us  wholly, 
Till  we  came  on  a  maiden  who  lone  did  go. 

And  her  eyes  were  glorious,  wrought  of  splendor, 
And  her  cheek  was  tinged  with  a  gallant  fire  ; 
And  she  was  e'en  as  the  poplar  slender, 
When  the  starling  singeth  of  his  desire. 

But  her  glance  was  weary  and  full  of  sadness, 
And  joy  had  fled  as  a  bird  from  her, 
And  naught  was  left  but  the  deadly  gladness 
That  she  might  win  from  the  days  that  were. 

52 


And  we  stayed  the  strength  of  the  steeds  beside  her, 
And  I  spake  out:    "May  we  give  thee  aid?" 
But  she  answered  stately  and  slow :   "Fair  Rider, 
In  naught  may  ye  help  a  sorrowful  maid. 

"For  I  must  onward  and  cease  from  sorrow, 
And  ye  must  wend  aback  to  your  home, 
What  time  I  pray  for  the  merry  morrow, 
And  the  hope  of  the  years  that  are  to  come." 

And  on  she  fared  and  the  sun  went  with  her, 
And  the  light  died  out  on  the  shadowy  plain, 
While  the  little  breeze  blew  hither  and  thither 
Whispering  that  even  was  come  again. 

When  the  stars  came  out  of  their  day-long  hiding, 
And  the  moon  was  rising  white  and  clear, 
My  brother  and  I  came  back  from  riding, 
And,  oh,  but  our  hearts  were  sad  and  drear. 


53 


FURTHER  AMPLIFICATION   OF  THE  SENSA- 
TIONS   OF    A    CELEBRATED    MEDIAEVAL 
POET   WHO   WAS    TO    BE    HANGED 
WITH  HIS  COMPANIONS 
FOR  THIEVERY. 

In  me  the  taste  of  my  life  was  keener, 

In  me  the  heart  of  it  sweet  and  dear, 

And  the  whole  of  my  soul  was  lovelier,  cleaner, 

Than  these  poor  devils  that  whimper  here. 

I  shall  lose  a  world  that  is  all  in  nothing, 
A  kiss  and  a  bite  in  the  very  wind, 
A  lust  and  a  love  for  all  things,  clothing 
In  solemn  beauty  my  bitter  mind ; 

A  love  for  these  poor  lads,  evil  seeming, 
Who  on  the  morrow  shall  swing  with  me, 
A  love  of  waking,  of  sleeping,  and  dreaming, 
A  love  of  the  earth  and  the  sky  and  the  sea. 

My  way  was  ever  the  wilder  and  rougher, 
My  river  ever  ran  dark  and  deep, 
And  mine  was  ever  a  heart  to  suffer, 
A  heart  to  be  troubled,  a  heart  to  weep. 

But  oh,  my  mirth  was  beyond  all  laughter, 

And  oh,  my  joy  was  beyond  all  tears, 

And  my  love  shall  bloom  in  its  strength  hereafter, 

Through  the  thunder  and  throb  of  the  thronging  years. 

54 


When  the  Kings  are  down,  and  the  Captains  are  going, 
When  their  strength  is  broken  from  flank  to  flank, 
Let  them  hearken  the  song  of  my  trumpets  blowing; 
They  shall  win  with  only  my  song  to  thank. 

Courage  and  splendor  and  fire  together, 
Singing  from  me  in  the  wind  and  the  rain, 
Dead  and  dank  and  blown  like  a  feather 
To  and  fro  at  the  end  of  the  chain. 

Though  the  strong  sea  sever,  the  earth  be  sundered, 
The  night  be  broken,  and  day  depart, 
Enough  for  them  to  have  known  and  pondered 
Marvelous  things  in  the  deep  of  my  heart. 

I  shaped  my  passion  of  iron  and  silver, 
And  purified  in  the  burning  fire, 
Time  shall  not  steal  nor  the  seasons  pilfer 
The  strength,  that  rose  with  the  heart's  desire. 

Forth  to  the  beautiful  feet  of  her  judgment. 
Broken  with  greatness  and  death  and  doom, 
I  go  from  the  fear,  where  my  feet  found  lodgement, 
To  stand  alone  in  a  wider  room. 

Wider  than  earth  and  deeper  than  heaven, 
Girded  about  as  a  prophet  of  God, 
With  a  blessing  given  of  God  to  leaven 
The  bread  of  my  life  that  is  cast  abroad. 

I  come  as  a  God  to  an  holy  city; 
My  heart  is  lifted  as  fire  to  rise; 
And  pure  and  perfect  in  passionate  pity, 
Deeper  than  God's  have  I  seen  her  eyes. 

55 


Oh,  city  set  on  the  hills  by  the  river ! 
Oh,  wide  glad  river  that  floweth  by ! 
Oh,  lily  and  olive  perfect  forever ! 
Oh,  song  that  flames  in  my  spirit's  cry! 

Sorrow  and  loneliness  come,  I  care  not, 

Sorrow  and  loneliness,  deadly  fear. 

What  the  brave  men  dread,  and  the  cowards  dare  not, 

Stands  in  my  vision  nor  there  nor  here. 

For  I  am  strong  in  the  unshook,  single, 
Splendid  desire  that  is  deep  and  divine, 
And  I  die,  and  the  hands  of  her  greatness  mingle 
The  water  of  death  with  undying  wine. 


TO   THE   DISTANT   PRINCESS. 

I  know  not  what  the  Western  merchant  bore 
To  Egypt,  when  he  chaffered  for  the  East, 
For  broideries  all  wrought  with  bird  and  beast, 
And  golden  tankards  chased  of  massive  ore, 
Opium  and  dreamy-hearted  mandragore, 
And  royal  opals,  such  as  had  released 
Kings  out  of  bondage,  or  that  had  increased 
The  dower  of  queens  in  castellate  Rajore. 

Even  as  such  a  merchant  now  am  I, 

That  seeing  heaps  of  Indian  cloth  of  gold, 

And  sandalwood  whose  worth  may  not  be  told, 

Knows  that  his  offer  is  but  mockery, 

And  even  though  he  labor  till  he  die 

Still  shall  his  prize  be  worth  an  hundred-fold. 


FREE  BALLADE  OF  MYSELF  AND  MONSIEUR 
RABELAIS. 

King  Henry  hath  his  amber  wine, 

And  Frank  of  Guise,  as  gossips  tell, 
Eats  every  day  a  capon  fine, 

And  sneers  at  hock  or  hydromel. 
But  as  for  us  we'd  rather  dwell 

A  little  from  the  world  away, 
Although  we  love  its  cheer  right  well, 

Myself  and  Monsieur  Rabelais. 

Of  Panurge  on  the  restless  brine 

He  hath  a  jolly  tale  to  tell, 
Of  how  Gargantua  did  dine, 

Or  of  the  great  Pantagruel, 
And  what  adventure  him  befell, 

To  make  one  laugh  a  summer's  day. 
We  get  on  marvelously  well, 

Myself  and  Monsieur  Rabelais. 

Though  Churchman  rant  of  wrath  divine, 

Or  Saint  of  Sales  our  doom  foretell, 
"  'Twill  all  come  right,"   as  we  opine, 

Though  Pope  or  Luther  burn  in  Hell. 
The  mystery  of  the  flask  to  spell 

Brings  better  hope  of  judgment  day, 
Which  comforts  both  of  us  full  well, 

Myself  and  Monsieur  Rabelais. 

58 


Prince !  in  strict  fact,  although  we  dwell 
Three  merry  centuries  away, 

We  hob  and  nob  surpassing  well, 
Myself  and  Monsieur  Rabelais. 


PROEM. 

My  ships  may  go  to  ruin  on  the  sea, 
And  I,  who  lived  but  in  their  wealth  and  pride, 
Will  sit  me  down  close  to  the  harbor-side, 
Reckless  of  Corsairs  out  of  Barbary, 
And  dream  of  some  forgotten  mystery, 
Some  song  of  silence,  and  the  washing  tide, 
With  its  reiterant  droning,  shall  deride 
The  fair  ambition,  that  ennobled  me. 

And  when  the  solemn  evening  darkeneth, 

Far  up  a  long,  grey  river  will  I  go, 

Pondering  but  little  on  my  overthrow, 

And  in  some  bitter  barren  I  will  reap 

My  whirlwind  harvest,  till  the  dawn  draws  breath, 

And  then  lie  down  between  my  sheaves  and  sleep. 


60 


DRAWN   BATTLE. 

As  I  was  pondering  in  the  dead  of  night, 
A  sorrow  suddenly  arose  in  me: 
"And  if  I  die,  shall  I  die  utterly? 
And  all  my  infinite  sorrow  and  delight 
Wither  away  to  naught  beneath  a  blight? 
And  being  be  no  more,  and  nothing  be 
Throughout  the  terror  of  eternity  ? 
And  all  be  as  a  ship  sunk  out  of  sight?" 

Then  was  I  sad  and  made  a  bitter  moan, 

That  the  exceeding  splendor  I  have  seen 

Should  perish,  leaving  wretched  chaff  to  glean. 

But  as  I  mourned  my  harvest  spoiled  and  strown, 

Came  comfort  in  a  deep-voiced  undertone: 

" Why  weepest  thou ?     Sing  rather:   I  have  been." 


61 


NEW   HOPE. 

Know,  that  though  all  thy  being  fade  away, 
And  the  whole  strength  of  body  and  of  mind 
Go  out  like  leaves  before  a  veering  wind, 
Still  shall  thy  soul  and  life  resist  and  stay; 
Changed,  mayhap,  as  is  lead,  the  stories  say, 
By  the  charmed  stone  the  alchemist  would  find. 
Shall  the  first  sovran  axiom  cease  to  bind  ? 
"Nothing  can  die  and  nothing  pass  away." 

Then  terribly  majestic  thundered  clear 
A  wild,  immortal,  vehement  harmony, 
That  shook,  and  wakened,  and  ennobled  me, 
And  swept  away  the  passion  of  my  fear. 
And  my  renascent  spirit  knew  the  sheer 
Splendor  of  resonant  promise:    "I  shall  be." 


62 


RISING  TIDE. 

Is  not  thy  life  as  water  of  the  sea 

Thrown  by  the  high  tide  in  a  shallow  pool, 

Blown  over  by  the  hot  wind  and  the  cool, 

And  for  an  hour  increasing  ceaselessly 

With  strong  salt  water,  furious  and  free, 

Till  the  recession  of  the  waves  that  rule? 

What  need  to  ask:   "Where  went  the  water?"   Fool! 

Was  it  not  back  into  the  thunderous  sea  ? 

Yea,  for  the  sea  is  as  his  image  made 

By  the  strong  life-god,  working  out  his  will, 

And  all  the  sounding  deeps  for  good  or  ill, 

Are  filled  with  morsels  of  his  strength  that  fade, 

Stretch  forth,  recede,  retreat,  return,  invade; 

That  never  die  and  never  shall  be  still. 


63 


VICTORY. 

Yea  by  the  strong-  desire  of  heat  and  light, 
Yea  by  the  marvellous  working  of  the  wind, 
That  strength  of  living  water  goes  behind 
The  splendor  of  the  vapor  veils  of  night. 
E'en  so  our  brethren  vanish  from  our  sight, 
E'en  so  goes  out  the  strength  of  creature  kind, 
Fused  fatefully  together,  and  combined 
In  one  deep,  manifold  element  of  delight. 

Whither  or  why  I  know  not.     Why  with  care 
Search  the  unsearchable,  or  seek  to  know  ? 
When  every  sea-tide,  in  its  ebb  and  flow, 
Breathes  up  rich  vapor  of  life  into  the  air, 
The  mainland  of  the  sunset,  yet  to  bear 
Harvests  of  flame,  that  only  God  can  sow. 


THE  WITS  OF  LONDON. 

The  wits  of  London,  long  ago, 
They  sang  as  men  who  do  not  know 
Or  care  what  mummers  come  behind 
Youth's  pageant  of  the  quaint  and  kind. 
The  wine  went  swiftly  to  and  fro 
Before  the   '  "Mermaid's"   hearth  aglow. 
They  took  the  devil's  quid-pro-quo ; 
They  reaped  the  storm,  who  sowed  the  wind, 
The  wits  of  London. 

They  wist  not  that  it  could  be  so, 
That  this  their  mirth  could  fail,  although 
They  were  not  altogether  blind. 
They  cast  the  dead  time  out  of  mind, 
The  dead  time  coming  stern  and  slow, 
The  wits  of  London. 


ENVOY. 

^^_  ¥          Tuujh_ I     JF  *        ^  >        >  >   tkt  <•*•  f* 

What's  the  good  of  living,  when  the're  things  that  you're 


Lrvmi^'s  only  courage  anci  dying's  only  fear. 
What's  the  good  of  knowing  when  you  don't  kfrow  what 
you're  made  of? 

4-  V-  •  '       *  I     •*••»•»    i!          *   '.  V.  '       •».•>- 'um»<i  ^      ^j 

What's  the  good  of  singing  when  the're  better  sorigs  to 
Tiear? 


The   wind   is   cold    out    doors   and    the    heart    is    cold 

within  me, 

And  it's  bitter  cold  beside  the  ash-choked  fire. 
And  the  "azure  little  devils"  pessimistically  pin  me 
Like  a  moth  to  every  excellent  and  unfulfilled  desire. 

Once  I  thought  I  had  invention,  once  I  thought  I  had 

ideas, 

And  now  I  know  the  meaning  of  it  all, 
For  my  embryonic  statues  didn't  turn  to  Galateas 
And  I'm  feeling  mean,  and  comfortless,  and  desolate,  and 

small. 

It  means  laboring  forever  with  the  mallet  and  the  chisel, 

And  losing  things  you  like  when  you  are  young. 

It  means  swallowing  your  temper  when  the  criticisms 

sizzle 
And   enduring   all    the   triply-pointed    torments   of    the 

tongue. 

66 


The  world  is  more  than  lovely.    She  has  reared  me  very 

gently 

She  was  generous  in  comfort  and  in  pelf, 
But  all  she  ever  taught  me  was  to  criticize  intently, 
That  moralizing  idiot,  I  used  to  think  myself. 

He  seemed  hardly  well  adapted  to  so  studious  a  scrutiny, 
He  couldn't  stand  examination  well, 
He  seemed  to  be  constructed  out  of  selfishness  and  mutiny 
And  several  of  the  thrice  rejected  corner-stones  of  Hell. 

But  praise  to  things  in  general,  I'm  pretty  nearly  through 

with  him, 

I'm  outbound  for  the  Indies  and  the  South, 
And  never,  never,  never  will  I  shiver  and  be  blue  with 

him, 
When  no  song  is  in  my  spirit  and  no  music  in  my  mouth. 

I've  taken  up  the  quest  again  across  the  hollow  seas 

to  her, 

Sea-enamoured  Lady  of  the  years, 
And  I  bear  the  sword  of  triumph  and  the  music  of  my 

peace  to  her 
To  shake  my  shames  with  battle,  and  to  batter  off  my 

fears. 

Cast  away  your  dirty  canvas  all  soiled  with  shame  and 

loathing, 

Hoist  aloft  courageous  wings  anew, 
We've  thrown  away  our  lading,  that  was  naught  and 

good  for  nothing, 
And  we've  strong  new  shrouds  and  rigging  for  the  wind 

to  whistle  through. 

67 


Down  the  huddled  harbor,  where  the  scurrying  catspaws 

shudder, 

Beyond  the  seawall  where  the  tides  are  torn, 
And  we'll  make  the  Happy  Islands,  if  we  have  to  eat  the 

rudder, 
And  chase  the  Flying  Dutchman  round  the  ramparts  of 

the  Horn. 


63 


P$ 


